How I never met my mother
by Gigi685
Summary: This is a story about the daugther of Barney and Robin after the worst happens.
1. Prologue

**How I never met my mother - Prologue**

_**In the year 2030, 5th of May**_

Mrs. Benson was very tired. She read the compositions of the students since hours, but the mountain of papers next to her didn't wanted to be less. She wiped her glasses an continued reading. She liked her job, but sometimes she felt like a slave. And although she loved children, in the bad days she could hate her class better than everything. Working with teenagers is the hardest work in the world. The most of people thinks their work is the hardest thing, but when she looked at the face of the parents, and she knew she has to work with their children she knew she had right. She started to read the composition of an other student. It was written by Rosemary R. Stinson. Mrs. Benson didn't know Rosie really well. The most of the girls liked her classes, but when she looked at Rosie, she saw a bored face. When she gave the lesson - to write a composition about your mother - she thought it's a good exercise and the children liked it. Except Rosie. Mrs. Benson knew, that Rose isn't interested about the literatur. She told to everyone in the first day of the school, that she wants to be a doctor, and nothing else. When Mrs. Benson heard how the teacher of chemistry or biologie talks about Rose, she was totally impressed. It was like they were talking about an other girl. She didn't like the style how Rose spoke or wrote. And she didn't like to read Rosie's compositions. When she read one of them she felt the person who wrote didn't care about it and that was typical of Rose. She really didn't care about it. She never was one of her favorite students. And the teacher knew she never will. But when she started to read Rosie's composition about her mother, she started to understand, why she didn't like the exercise.

_About my mother - by Rosemary R. Stinson_

_It's going to be a quite short composition, because I didn't know as much about my mother as my classmates know. I know her name. She was called Robin Scherbatsky. My whole name is Rosemary Robin Stinson, because after I was born, my mother and my father thought it would be a good middle name. Well, it wasn't, and when I grow up I want to change it. And I know, she had some canadian relatives, because when I was 4-years-old, her father, so my grandfather came to New York to arguing with my father. He wanted to bury my mother in Canada, but my father said it wouldn't be a good idea. When my grandfather left the house, and I think it was the last time I saw him in my life, my father was more angry than before. He called my grandfather 'jerk' when I was in the room, so I know, he was really angry. _

_Honestly I hate the idea of the composition. I had to write what I honestly think, beacuse Mrs. Benson, you always say to be honest in my compositions. So I'm going to be honest. I hate the whole idea of this composition. I hate talking about my mother. And I hate writing about her. Not because I hate my mother. I don't think I would hate her if she stays alive. I hate my father and this is enough. But after more than ten years talking about my mother is still painful. _

_She died 9th of November, when I was four years old in a car accident. I still remember for that night. I couldn't sleep, because I had nightmares, so I wnt into the livingroom. It was about midnight I guess, and I found my father in the livingroom too. I asked to him where mom is, and then he started to cry. I've never seen him cry anymore except that night. He told me, the angels offered a job to my mother and she had to accept it, so she moved to the heaven. I remember, that in that night I was very angry with my mother, because she left I became a bit older of course I realized my dad lied to me. My mother died, that's all. But I asked every night about my mother. Where she is, does she remember to me and is she okay. My father always answered the same thing; she's in the heaven looking at us, and she remembers to me, and she loves me. And of course, that she's okay, because in the place where she is pain doesn't exist. But she won't come back. Not because she didn't want, she can't came back. When I asked my dad, why, he answered the angels loves her too much, and don't let her go. I remember, I hated angels better than everything, because they stole my mother._

_I remember at my mother's funeral. It was a rainy day in November. I was in the same black dress as in my grandmother's funeral a few months before. My mother brought me. When the mom of my dad died, dad was totally over. I remember at grandma's funeral too. My parents were standing next to each other, holding the hands of each other, and in some weird way although I was standing in a funeral, I was happy, because I thought my parents are going to be together forever. But I'm writing about my mother's funeral now. It wasn't very big, because my mother's dad was hurted so much, that my father didn't want to bury my mother in Canada, that the most of my mother's family didn't come. Her sister was the only one, who wanted to see her funeral. And of course there were dad and me. And the friends of my parents. Aunt Lily and uncle Marshall, and uncle Ted. I didn't know them very well, but they were very nice to me. And some of the collegues of my mother, I don't know what she did for living, but she had a terrible co-worker, who was drunk. It was raining, and my father was very angry. He's always angry, but when my mother died, he was more angry than before. I was standing silently and thinking about what is in the box whch is called coffin, and why is it so big. Of course I knew my mother is in it, but I was four years old, and it was like a nightmare._

_So this is all I knew about my mother. Yes, all of my oldest memories are about funerals, I know it's sucks._

_And I know about my mother, that she had brown hair, because I have brown hair too, and everytime I met one of the old acqueintances of my mother they always say: "Holy crap! You totally looks like Robin!", or something like that. I don't know exactly, how she looked, because after she died my father didn't wanted to see pictures of her. I don't know where the photos are, but I've never seen a photo of my mother._

_I have some memories of her. How she smelled like, and I remember her voice a bit. But I think it's only my imagination. I want to remember her so badly that I picturing some things about her. But it doesn't make it true._

_My mother is the biggest mistery of my life. I think about her every day. I know I'm never going to see her. And my father doesn't want to answering my questions about mom. He stopped answering when I started to recognize when he lies. I mean, the heaven-thing was just a tale, of course. And because he stopped answering, I stopped questioning. And then we stopped speaking._

_I hate Mother's Day, Father's Day, and anything else. Maybe I feel the same thing which the single girls feel in Valentine's Day. I don't want to celebrate something which I don't have. _

_Being a half-orphan is sucks, so I don't like talking about it. But the biggest sucks in the whole thing, that I feel I'm an orphan. Sometimes it's like a wouldn't have a father too. According to uncle Marshall I remind my dad to my mother, and losing my mother hurted him too much to remember it. Luke thinks my father is simply just a jerk._

_I think Luke's theory is the right one._

_Whatever, seems like I'm going to write a whole novel on Father's Day..._

_P.S.: No, Mrs. Benson, I don't want to talk about it._

When Mrs. Benson ended, she read it again and again. She never thought she's going to read a composition by Rosie Stinson more than once. It wasn't a good composition it was full of mistakes, and the way she wrote was too vulgar and coarse. But she found out something which she never thought before: Rosie Stinson's mother died.


	2. The best support in the world

**A/N: Ahoy! I haven't written since weeks, but I'm alive, I just travelled a lot and improved my German (Such a hard langauge!), or wrote in my mother langauge. But during the long pause I had been thinking about the story, and I'm full of ideas what to write. I hope you'll like it, and I want to say thank you for everyone, who wrote rewiev for the prologue, or just read me. **

**Chapter One**

I always hated Mrs. Benson's lessons. First of all, because that woman is stupid. And when I say stupid, I really mean stupid. She's annoying, but she thinks she isn't. She always tried to look friendly, but she never really was. She's not the teacher I like to speak, but after I wrote that stupid composition I knew it's obvious I had to. She gave back everybody else's compositions except me. And after the class ended, she said she wanted to talk with me.

I didn't want to talk with her, but of course I couldn't say this. One more reason why is it sucks to being a teenager.

When the class ended, and everyone else was gone I knew I can't escape.

"Rosie." - she started. When I heard my name I knew it'll be boring. Like every talk with Mrs. Benson. She's the most boring, annoying teacher of the world. I didn't like literature before, but after she became our teacher I hated it. "I think you know, why I invited you to talk with me." - I nodded. -"Your composition about your mother was disappointing."

"Disappointing? Really?" - I asked back with a sarcastic smile on my face. - "Maybe it was disappointing because my mother died."

"I know." - Mrs. Benson said.

"No, you don't know." - I said. - "I would be surprised if you really know it." - I looked at her face and I knew what she thought about me. She thought I was rude, and she had right, but I didn't care about it. Losing my mother was always a painfully topic for me, and I never liked to talk about it.

"Yes, you have right, Rosie. I don't know. But if you want to talk about it..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

_Especially not with you. _– I affixed in thought.

"Okay, Rosie..." she said. I knew both of us thought the other is a stupid, annoying bitch, but of course we couldn't said it loud. " Does anybody know about your mother in the class?"

"Yes." I said. "Luke knows it."

Luke knows everything about me. He's my best friend since I was a toddler. We're in the same age, we were in the same class, and sometimes I feel he's my boy version. With a mother, of course.

Our fathers knew each other, they were best friends, but after my mother died they didn't talk more to each other. Leia said she heard a rumor, that before my mother started dating my father she dated Luke's father. I hoped it's not true, because that would be weird. Uncle Ted (this is how Luke's father called) met his wife at the wedding day of my parents, and they immediately fell in love. Leia said he wanted to forget my mother so much that he married their mother in a half year. I don't like Leia. I never liked her. She's kind of evil, and she's always a bitch with Luke. Through the years I heard Luke complaining about his sister so many times, and always, when Leia joined us Luke was being frustrated. I never knew what's the reason of their bad relationship.

Mrs. Benson was looking at me, and I knew, what she was going to say. The whole woman is just so predictable!

„Is Luke a special boy for you?" – she asked. God, I never understood, why does any teacher think it has anything to do with my privacy! If I would have to say one reason, why aren't these boy-girl-friendships good ideas, I'd say the questions. The annoying questions about our romantic life, and being conscious of whatever you say those bitches are going to talk about you. I don't care what about are they talking, but I never liked to being the topic of their stupid rumors. And it was more annoying because no, Luke isn't a special boy for me in _that way_.

„We're just friends." – I answered the most boring questions of the world, and strated to thinking about how to escape.

„Oh, I get it." – Mrs. Benson nodded, and I started to being really-really nervous. I just wanted to go home, and be alone. Fortunatelly it seemed Mrs. Benson wanted to end our talking too. – „Rosie…" – she started to speak again after a long silence. – „I want to speak to your father."

„I don't think so." – I answered with a (deliberately) rude smile on my face, and then just walked out of the room, and left Mrs. Benson alone.

* * *

Next to the door Luke was waiting for me. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. Sometimes I just couldn't understand why am I so luckily to have a friend like Luke. He waited for me next to the door to go home together.

It belongs to the story, that Luke and I are almost-neighbors. After my mother died my father was tottally crock, so Luke's father offered to move away to Westchester, to be near next to each other. When my father wasn't able to take care of me, I went to uncle Ted's place, and I stayed there until my father collected oneself.

This is how Luke and I became good friends. The first time I went to uncle Ted's house I was three-and-a-half years old, I know it, because when I met Luke at the first time he asked me how old I am. I didn't know, so I asked mom, and she told me, that I was three and-a-half, but Luke was older than me. I remember at her smile, I remember, how happy she was; she was sitting next to dad, and holding his hand, and they were talking about something very serious with uncle Ted, and his wife. I remember, she looked at uncle Ted, and she said „Seems like our daugther has a new friend.", and they started laughing. This is my best memory about my mother. And she had right.

She died punctually seven months, two weeks, and five days after she said that.

„What are you thinking about?" – Luke asked me when we were sitting on the bus. – „You're so silent."

„That stupid Mrs. Benson started to ask me about my mother." – I said. Luke made a painfully face. He know how much I didn't like Mrs. Benson. Or talking about my mother.

„Rosie, I told you, you sholudn't have to write that composition." – he said. Oh yes, Luke always knows better. In his opinion.

„No, it wouldn't have been a good solution." - Luke rolled his eyes. He's alwasy very sensitive, as his ideas regards. „And worse; she wants to talk to my father."

„Poor Mrs. Benson." – Luke said with a sarcastic laugh. – „I don't like her, but she doesn't deserve it!" I laughed with Luke. I understood, what he was thinking about.

The bus stopped, and we got off.

* * *

Arriving at home is clearly the worst part of the day. Seeing our house, which is too big for two people in my opinion, walking trough our big, ill-kempt garden, opening our old door, which is as big as the whole, creepy house is, and meeting my old, boring father, who's working on his computer, and everytime I arrive looking at me with a crabby blink.

„Hy." – I greeted.

„Do your homework." – my dad said.

„I did it."

„No, you didn't. Do your homework!" – this is how a usually talk looks like between us. My dad never took big care about me, but everytime I want to go somewhere, or meet with somebody, he says no, and starting talking about how dangerous the world is for a girl in my age. Oh yes, Saint Barnabus Stinson, who was born with a halo on her head. He always thinks there's some guy who wants to bang me, and then leave alone, and he has to protect me. I'm not sure did he ever live, or not, but I always felt he didn't know what is a men like.

Honestly I never knew, how my mother fell in love with him. He never smiles, he never understands the jokes, he's boring, he works all the day, and put all of his money into his stupid strongbox next to his bed. He's the meanest person I know. Through the years I never saw him smiling. Sometimes I think my mother was also as boring as he is, and this is why they married, but then I always remember the day, when I met Luke, and that smile on my mother's face. Okay, in that memory my father laughed too, but the memory re-enact some things, maybe I just imagined, or didn't watch my father's face. But I'm sure, my mother smiled.

* * *

I went upstairs, to „do my homework", as my father thought. Honestly I never did my homework, except biology, or chemistry. These are my favorite classes, I want to know everything about them. When I ended learning (sooner as it would be right), I read some articles about an interesting discovery between the connections of the humanity and some carnivoras, but after a few lines I found out I couldn't read anymore. Not because it wasn't interesting, I just couldn't read, because my eyes were full of teardrops.

_God, I thought too much about my mother again… _- I thought. It happened to me a few times. There were some memories about her, and writing that composition upsetted me, but I never liked crying. Everytime I cried I felt myself small, and miserious. And this is which is like I never wanted to be.

Sometimes I imagined what is my life would have been if my mother stayes alive. Just like every child who losed one of it's parents.

I imagined every stupidity. How she would have look like in the same age with dad, although I don't know exactly how she looked like, I imagine ourself talking about the latest fashion, or boys, or how she explains me the menstruation. (dad never told me about it, if I hadn't read in the topic, I would have been really surprised) And maybe I would have had a siebling. I don't care, if it would have been a siebling like Leia for Luke, sometimes I felt, I didn't care how bad it could be, I wanted one.

But they were just my stupid imagination about the perfect world. Which is perfect, because I can get what I want. If I would have a mother, I would want something else as much as I want to be with her, and if I would have it, I would want something else…

That's difficult.

Sometimes I wish I could communicate with my mother in some way.

* * *

„…And this is how I got the idea of the letters." – I ended my monologue on the phone. Luke was carefully listening to me, and when I ended, he just said one thing.

„Do it." – he said.

„What?" – I asked back with a surprised face. Fortunatelly he didn't see it. – „I thought you'll say I'm an idiot, and it's not a good idea."

„Yeah, you're an idiot." – Luke said. – „But your idea to write letters for your death mother is a good way to treat the topic."

„Oh, the young pshychologist." – I said with a sarcastic voice. I heard Luke laughing.

„No, really. Just… Do it." – Luke said. – „It's going to be a better help for you then Mrs. Benson."

„No question." – I said. Okay, from out I'm sure it seems like everything I do depends on what Luke says, but the truth is that when I'm not sure what I'm going to do, I just ask him, because although he has a lot of idiotistic ideas (sometimes I just can't understand how his mind works, but I'm sure there's something wrong with it), I know, he wants the best for me, and it's calming me down in every situation. – „And what's up with you?" – I asked.

„My sister…" – he started, and I knew, it won't have an and in a few days. But I just let him to talk like everytime, and being happy to have a good, supporting friend like Luke.

* * *

I know it sounds crazy, but I really thought it's going to help me. So I wrote the first letter for my mother at that night.


	3. Rosie's first letter

**Chapter Two – Rosie's first letter**

_2030 6th of May_

_Dear Mom!_

_God, it sounds stupid… Whatever. I know writing for you is stupid. But I know, you'll understand, because wherever you are, you are still my mother, and you know how much I need you. Maybe you know better than everyone else. You're my mother after all, you have to know everything about me._

_Okay, maybe not everything._

_The last time I spoke to you I said my first words, and I was quite different, but I was your daugther, and you were my mother. And you'll be forever, it's an ethernal thing, your death can't change it, sorry. _

_Honestly I was always a bit mad with you. You left me here with the most scartchy, rigidest father of the world. It wasn't nice. I would have needed you through the years you know._

_Okay, I don't want to bitch about my life, I prefer doing it alone. The reason why I write for you is because I miss you. I know, we never really met, and all I know about you, that you were laughing at that stupid night, when I met Luke, and it's nothing. But I still miss you, because my stupid brain says I need a mother, thanks to the evolution… I don't know if you're curious what is me like, but I'm going to write to you._

_You know when did I born, you know what's my name, you gave me the name Rose, because you wanted to give a girly name for your daugther. And my middle name is Robin after you. But I don't use it, I'm just Rosemary R. Stinson. _

_I don't know what to write be honest, writing or being sentimental aren't my genres. Maybe I can write what I want to do for living. I'm sura, you'll find it interesting. _

_I want to be a doctor to save people. Maybe to save another mother's daugthers from losing their mothers. I know, it's crazy. I don't blame you because you died. Okay, maybe a bit. But whenever I think about it, I realize it's irrealistic. I know you would have stayed here with me if you could._

_I should accept the fact you had to go._

_Mom, I know, it's crazy but there is something I always wanted to ask you. Why did you choose dad? Okay, as you call Barnabus. Did you call my dad Barnabus anyway? Uncle Ted always speaks about him as „Barney", but I don't know. The name Barney Stinson sounds like a gangster's name, or a womanizer's name. It's just simply not my father. Whatever. We've never talked about you. We've never talked about anything. But there were some things I was always curious for. For example: how did you meet? What was your wedding like? I'm sure you were beutiful in the write dress, the only bad thing was that you married dad._

_And one more question: Leia (she's Ted's daugther, I don't like her much) said there was something between you and uncle Ted. Is it right? And if really was, why didn't you chose uncle Ted? He's such a good father, and he's funnier than dad. He never understands the jokes, dad is lame. Uncle Ted is awesome, as I see._

_What was dad like when he was young? I can't imagine it. Now he saves all of his money, and collects in a safe-box next to his bed. It's ridicolous._

_I promised myself I'm going to write for you letters until I won't feel alone, so mom, we're in for a long journey together. You know, like normal girls with their living mother. I would write something like „Looking forward to start it", or „We're going to have so much fun!" but it would be too creepy. Of course I know, you're dead. I'm not crazy. Of course I know, writing „wherever you are" is stupid, because you're nowhere. You died. I'm never going to get you back. I know, you can't read me, I know, you can't hear me, I know 'you' doesn't exist. I know actually I don't have a mother, and I know, this whole letter-idea is stupid._

_But to make 'our journey' conducent I'll forget about this little thing…_

_Miss you_

_Rosie_


End file.
